


whisper of running streams

by bluebeholder



Series: One and the Same [5]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, No Sex, Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23429962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Early Summer, 9:37 DragonSometimes it's good to take a break from the fugitive life and a miniature paradise presents itself for the opportunity. Anders and Fenris take full advantage.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Series: One and the Same [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654444
Comments: 13
Kudos: 68





	whisper of running streams

**Author's Note:**

> Brief reference to Danarius. VERY brief. 
> 
> Scenery descriptions are based on a number of places I've actually been (mostly in the American Midwest). I sincerely hope I'm not annoying everyone with the amount of fic I'm putting out here...

Low ferns and other plants rustle softly under Fenris’ feet as he navigates down the steep slope to the creek below. The late afternoon sky is clear and blue, and though the sun is well-hidden behind the trees lining the top of the shallow ravine, there is plenty of light to see. Green trees form a canopy overhead, broken in a narrow line over the curve of the creek. As Fenris steps onto flat ground again, a narrow, wet, sandy bank studded with many large worked stones, cool water laps at his toes.

They’ve had a lucky break. Local rumor said that an ancient stretch of stone-paved road, from the old days of the Imperium, cut through the dense forest in these parts of northern Markham. It’s been abandoned for fifty years at least, but for a group of apostates on the run, it’s a perfect trail to follow. The road not only exists, but is mostly clear and easy to traverse, with its bridge over a deep creek still mostly intact. A stone guardhouse for the bridge, abandoned and coated in vines, still has a few remaining walls and a partial roof.

By collective agreement, they’ve taken a break here for a day.

Camp has been set up within the walls of the ancient guardhouse, which has enough space for all dozen travelers, the pack mule, and the cat. Earlier, while Fenris, Anders, and Brithari made a circuit of the area, checking for any hostile creatures or people, tents were erected, fires were set, and supplies were sorted. All is, for now, well.

Aside from the mages they met in Ostwick and the mages rescued just outside Markham, Anders and Fenris have three more mages in their party now. Halan is a researcher, escaped on a trip to a Chantry library outside of Markham. Yvonne and Binet traveled together all the way from the Ghislain Circle in Orlais after Binet, Tranquil, became a target for violence from Templars. The larger numbers bring a certain sense of security, but also necessitate more well-hidden sites. The stone walls of this forgotten Tevinter outpost are a blessing.

Of course, it’s not just the walls that are a blessing. Travel doesn’t do anyone favors in the bathing department. Fenris hasn’t seen a real washbasin since leaving Kirkwall, let alone a bathtub. It’s not his first round in such circumstances, but for many of the mages, it is. Used to regular bathing and clean environments, constant living in dust and sweat is unpleasant for them. As a result, most of them are more excited by the possibilities of the stream than the safety of solid stone walls.

Fenris quite shares their excitement.

The creek is deep, clear, and flows well, likely from headwaters in the Vimmark Mountains. It runs north through a sheer-walled ravine, and Fenris guesses it will eventually join up with the Minanter River. Above the bridge, a hundred yards away, the creek tumbles down a cliff in a small but beautiful and dramatic waterfall, which ends in a calm pool, perfect for bathing.

Someone had the clarity of mind to acquire soap in the last village they passed. It’s not fine soap and it doesn’t smell like much more than “clean,” but Fenris does not mind in the slightest. Bathing has been taken in turns: Anders and Fenris, having spent their time clearing the forest and assisting with necessary chores, are going last.

At the base of the ravine, Fenris surveys his surroundings. The bridge is just behind and above him, and he can hear the sounds of the rest of the company in the guardhouse. But the sounds are muffled by distance and the chattering laugh of the creek as it ripples over stones, carefully worked and clearly fallen from the bridge and any old walls that once supported it. The ravine continues up and downstream, and the far side of it has no sandy bank or passable slope, only a towering cliff face of smooth stone, overhung with moss and lichen.

Fenris turns upstream and walks along the bank. The prints of other feet mar the smooth sand, cool and soft under his bare feet. It’s soothing after days on hard, increasingly hot roads. Small fish, not even as long as his little finger, dart in the shallow clear water; once, in a still place, Fenris sees a turtle basking on a rock. The noise from the guardhouse fades as he rounds the bend in the creek, replaced by the soft crashing of the waterfall.

The waterfall tumbles perhaps twenty feet, first over a gentle slope and then straight down in a sheet of water. Years of rushing water have worn the base of the waterfall into a wide, shallow pool, hip-deep on a man. It sits in a basin, stone walls rising high, and overhung by trees above. The only exit is the way Fenris came in, by following the creek downstream toward the bridge. Despite the echoes of the falling water, the noise is muffled by the plentiful moss and plant life that coat the smooth walls.

Anders is already here. His clothes are neatly folded beside his boots and staff on a reasonably flat projection of stone, and he stands with his back to Fenris under the waterfall. Fenris pauses again, watching for a long moment. Against the dark walls of the basin, outlined crisply by the water rolling down his back, Anders looks a bit like a marble statue, a relic of the place himself.

Fenris shakes off the thoughts and puts himself to the task of stripping down. Getting off his armor is still a bit awkward, with its new unfamiliar fit—Anders had threatened to turn Fenris into a frog if he didn’t acquire more thorough armor. As a result, Fenris has an entire cuirass now (lacking the usual skirt and any mail beneath), as well as greaves. He’d drawn the line at anything more, since it would be far too noisy for a man on the run.

By the time his gear is off and sitting beside Anders, Fenris looks up to find Anders standing in the middle of the pool, water running in rivulets down his chest, watching him. “The water’s fine,” Anders says with a smile. “Come on in.”

The way Anders looks at him makes Fenris suddenly and acutely aware that this is the first time, outside of a purely practical context, that Anders has seen him naked.

And that it’s the first time he’s seen _Anders_ naked.

Fenris wades into the water. It’s calm this far away from the waterfall, and though it deepens quickly, the pool’s bottom is only soft sand and smooth pebbles, nothing more. A few large rocks jut up from the bottom, but they are smooth and easily avoided. The cool water is soothing on his lyrium brands, reducing the sting and burn of a day’s work.

In just a moment, Fenris joins Anders in the middle of the pool. Water that is only barely hip-deep on Anders is slightly more than that on Fenris; he feels, acutely, a sense of the difference in their heights. Anders is nearly half a foot taller than Fenris, which is not usually a great distance. But now…

Anders reaches up and runs wet fingers through Fenris’ hair, pushing it back. “I advise sticking your head right under the waterfall,” he says. “It’s very pleasant.”

“Have you already finished?” Fenris asks.

“I was waiting for you,” Anders says. A slight blush colors his cheeks.

“There was no need,” Fenris points out. Idly, he splashes water on his chest and upper arms, savoring the relief on his always-sore skin.

Almost tentatively, Anders bends down and kisses Fenris’ forehead. Fenris closes his eyes. Anders’ lips are warm, the water dripping from his hair providing a cool counterpoint as drops roll down Fenris’ face. “Yes, there was.”

It’s very pleasant to simply step under the waterfall. Anders was correct about that. It’s a novel sensation—Fenris has been under deluges before, but only in the context of rainstorms, a hole in the roof, or similar unpleasant circumstances. To simply stand under the water, the roaring blocking out all other sound, the force of the fall pummeling and relaxing his shoulders and back, is an extraordinary luxury.

“I’ve never had the chance to do this,” Anders says, rubbing soap into his hair with a blissful expression.

“Nor I,” Fenris says, sinking down to sit on one of the larger rocks. “The bathhouses in Tevinter are a little like this, but they are reserved for the use of free men.”

“A good thing we’re both free men, then,” Anders says with a smile. “ _And_ that we’re not in Tevinter.” He steps back under the waterfall and emerges a moment later, shaking his head like a wet mabari. Fenris watches him, smiling a little at how carefree Anders looks.

He lets his gaze travel down, taking in the sight. Anders, for all that he looks like a tall scarecrow in his ragged and poorly-fitted clothes, is broad in shoulders and chest. He’s well-muscled from years of physical labor and fighting. But there’s little more on his frame than that, giving him a slightly starved look, so lean and with such sharp bones and knobby joints. He has a decent amount of hair on arms and chest, most of it fair, darkening only in a trail below his navel that disappears under the waterline.

Attracting Fenris’ eye only once is the large, irregular scar on the left side of Anders’ chest. It looks like a messy sword thrust, as if the blade was twisted in the wound and ripped free. A killing blow, that. Fenris knows its origin, has touched it before, but it’s still a shock to _see_ in broad daylight.

If Anders is no physical paragon, Fenris still can’t take his eyes away. Anders is graceful, refined in motion. Since leaving Kirkwall, he carries himself differently, as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. There’s an energy, an inner fire, which pulls Fenris in every time.

“Like what you see?” Anders asks softly.

Fenris looks up at Anders. The blush is back, this time stronger, dappling his face and neck with irregular splotches. A smile that Fenris can only call _shy_ is on his lips, and his eyes are wide and hopeful.

“I do,” Fenris says, rising to his feet again. He pauses, as Anders in turn looks him over. A tremor of shyness runs through _him_ now, though Fenris strives to keep his voice steady. “Do _you_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Anders says. He sounds a little breathless. His gaze flickers over Fenris’ shoulders, his chest, his waist, back up to his face. “You’re…you could be some kind of champion in a song.”

“Do not mock me,” Fenris says, looking away and pushing his damp hair back from his face. Heat burns in his face and shoulders and up his ears and he’s sure it will be visible.

Water splashes as Anders closes the gap between them. “I’m not,” he says. “Andraste’s flaming knickers, Fenris, I thought you looked good with armor on. You look better with it _off_.”

“I can say the same for you,” Fenris says.

“You just hate my coat,” Anders teases. He runs both hands through Fenris’ hair, brushing over the tips of Fenris' ears, and Fenris shivers at the warm touch. “I’d like…to wash your hair, if you’ll let me?”

It’s a pleasant feeling, to let Anders do this. Fenris stands with his back to Anders as his lover rubs soap into his hair, massaging his scalp and temples. It’s more thorough than a simple wash requires, but Fenris likes it.

“Danarius used to order me to do this,” Fenris says thoughtlessly.

Anders stops. “He _what_.”

The air crackles faintly with the smell of lightning. Fenris shakes his head, leaning back against Anders. “A common enough task, Anders.”

“Is it all right that I’m—”

Fenris tips his head back, brushing soap suds from his forehead, so he can see Anders. “I only mention it because I begin to see why he enjoyed it.”

Anders sighs. The smell of lightning fades and he resumes his massage. “Well,” he says, a bit of forced lightness to his tone, “I hope I’m living up to whatever perfect standard I’m sure you set.”

“More than,” Fenris says. He closes his eyes and rests back against Anders, luxuriating in the feeling of safety and calm. Anders is strong and solid and _present_. It’s a foreign feeling, to lean on him like this, but Fenris trusts Anders without reservation.

He ducks under the waterfall to rinse off and emerges much refreshed. Certainly the dust of the road is off by now, and Fenris is cleaner than he’s been in _months_. Yet he has no desire to leave the pool, though his fingers and toes are starting to wrinkle a bit.

For a while, he sits side by side with Anders on a rock near the edge of the pool, deep enough that the water rises halfway over his chest. Anders contrives to get an arm around Fenris’ shoulders, a warm encouragement for Fenris to continue leaning on Anders. He does.

“I had no idea how…extensive those were,” Anders says, clearly meaning Fenris’ lyrium.

Idly, Fenris lets the brands flicker, glowing crisp and clear blue under the water. He observes the winding trails, as he has so many times before. Following the lines of his bones, accented with curls and flourishes that echo the shapes of Dalish vallaslin as the lyrium wraps its way around his body. Trios of small dots, like those on his forehead, scatter among the lines. A knot of it on his sternum, the centerpiece of the whole nightmarish tapestry, is the largest single element of the design.

“And what do you think of them?”

“If they were something you’d chosen for yourself, I’d call them beautiful,” Anders says. He presses a kiss to Fenris’ temple. “As it is…well.”

“They _are_ a part of me,” Fenris says, turning a bit to look up at Anders.

“Which means I feel the same about them as I do about things like…say, your bad temper and odd opinions,” Anders says. “Part and parcel of one whole man, who I…”

A very long pause. Fenris studies Anders’ face, his beautiful eyes, aquiline nose, wide mouth. “Who you…?”

“Well,” Anders says, softly enough that he’s almost inaudible over the noise of the waterfall, “now’s as good a time as ever, isn’t it?”

“Out with it,” Fenris murmurs, resting a hand on Anders’ chest.

He gets a long, slow blink, and another quiet pause. “I love you, Fenris,” Anders says. “Maker help me, I love you. Everything you’ve done, all these years…it used to be admiration, I told myself it was infatuation, and now…”

Fenris’ hand trembles a little, where it presses flat over Anders’ heart. Anders must feel it, because he rests his hand over Fenris’. He presses closer, brushing the tips of their noses together. The silence is calm, but anticipatory. Anders is waiting.

The phrase Anders used seems too large, too overwhelming. Yet he _does_ feel the same way. Fenris searches for something to say, something that matches the feelings, and remembers abruptly that he has another language at his disposal.

“Know that I feel the same, amatus,” Fenris says.

Anders opens his eyes again. “I don’t speak Tevene…does that mean what I think it does?”

Fenris laces their fingers together. Something settles into place inside him, uncertainty fading away. “Yes. It does.”

**Author's Note:**

> **  
> [PLEASE check out this beautiful art by esmeraldablazinsky for this series!](https://esmeraldablazingsky.tumblr.com/post/613961056137723904/second-fth-piece-this-time-for-wanderingnork)  
>  **
> 
> I envision Fenris as standing between 5’7” and 5’8” (1.7 to 1.72 meters, for you metric folks), while Anders is somewhere between 6’1” and 6’2” (1.85 to 1.88 meters). You can plug these numbers in on this wonderful height comparison chart from Mr.InitialMan.com, if you want a good visual.
> 
> Armor translation: Fenris is entirely armored on the torso (cuirass), though he lacks protection on his hips/front bits. His upper arms lack protection and so do his thighs and feet, but his calves and shins are protected (greaves) and so are his hands and forearms (gauntlets). 
> 
> Anders is going to keep working on this. Maybe Fenris will consent to some chain mail, down the road.


End file.
